


Something To Talk About

by karaokegal



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: Couch Cuddles, M/M, RPF, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 18:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karaokegal/pseuds/karaokegal
Summary: The announcement nobody was expecting; the friendship no one understands.





	Something To Talk About

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perdiccas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/gifts).



> From the heart-wishing my recipient the loveliest of Yuletides. Thanks for a great prompt. Beta and Britchecking were invaluable. Thank you to [Topaz Eyes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes) and [My Young Friend](http://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Young_Friend/pseuds/My_Young_Friend)

“Do you know what I can’t understand?”

 

David looked at his wife, who was peering through her glasses at a rack of Scrabble letters. It was hard to imagine her not understanding anything, since she was one of the most erudite and intuitive people he had ever known. A text in ancient Urdu might give Victoria a run for her money, but he also wouldn’t put it past her to have picked up bit of it somewhere along the way and be able to decipher the whole thing in minutes. It was just possible that her query was a stall for time, while she figured out something to do with those U’s he was almost positive she was currently stuck with. Perhaps she was trying to throw him off the trail and maybe even plant the word Urdu in his mind and then try to bluff him that it was an acceptable word, rather than a proper noun.

 

“Theresa May’s DUP deal?”

 

Victoria gifted him with a smile.

 

“No, darling. That’s just what happens when a woman shuts herself off from anyone who might talk sense into her, you know, just like…”

 

They shared raised eyebrows and continued to avoid using the B-word that so wasn’t a word.

David stared at the board. He had the Q, but was holding out the possibility that a non-ironic I would pop up for him to play it on. There was a tempting spot for a willy, in its non-proper usage, but that would give Victoria a chance to dump those two U’s, if indeed she had them at all.

 

“What don’t you understand?”

 

“Lee and Noel.”

 

David took a second to process this. Clearly the Noel she meant was the one who seemed to have been on the telly all bloody day, an occasional Big Fat Quiz competitor, but not particularly a member of the Mitchell-Coren inner circle. 

 

Channel 4 had certainly picked their timing well. The so called “real news” was full of the B-word and whatever new drivel was being issued by the lunatic currently running America leaving the desperate for something to glom onto between the previous series of “Big Brother” and the next one of “Britain’s Got Talent.” The fact that the new hosts of The Bake Off were Noel and Sandi fit the bill perfectly. 

 

Sandi had always been one of his favorite people in the business. He’d been thrilled that she got the QI gig, and Noel, as far as he knew was a perfectly lovely, if slightly loopy bloke. It was a rather bold choice, given some of the material that Noel and Julian had used in The Mighty Boosh, but good on Channel 4 for thinking a bit outside the box. So which Lee did Victoria have in mind? The only one he could think of was…

 

“Lee? _Our_ Lee? Lee Mack?”

 

“Yes, dear.”

 

“Well, what’s to understand there?”

 

“They just seem to get on so well. Anytime they’re on a show together, there’s a certain happy glow of entertainment.”

 

David narrowed his eyes.

 

“As opposed to when Lee and I are creating BAFTA nominated hilarity together?”

 

She raised her eyebrows back at him.

 

“That’s a performance, and a brilliant one. With those two I just feel it’s as though they’d beamed in from utterly different comedy universes, but they make each other light up. I know they’re friends, but I just can’t see them being so close.”

 

The whole conversation was starting to remind David of some of the fiction he’d read on the Internet during the time Peep Show was running. People had strange notions about his and Robert’s characters, and perhaps odder ones about him and Robert. Or him and Charlie. Or other combinations, he’d never considered, often involving people he’d never even met. He’d learned to stop looking after a while. The better written the erotica was, the more disturbing he found it. He once tried to raise the issue with Stephen, only to be greeted with a sigh and pursed lips so deeply disapproving that David decided it would never be mentioned again.

 

“Just how close do you think they are?”

 

“Didn’t they share a flat?”

 

“Well there’s evidence! I think that was just a giant snafu on Ronni’s part during the Fringe back in 1995. She was trying to set up a place for Tim and Lee but the wires got crossed and they ended up sharing it with Noel and Julian. Ronni says they all got pissed as newts every night on somebody else’s stash of pricey single malt.”

 

Just for punctuation, he laid out the “willy,” tallied up the score and watched with a sense of odd satisfaction as she played ulu. There was time left for his qi, and even if it didn’t happen, he was still a lucky man to be with a woman smart enough to trounce him at Scrabble and beautiful enough to cause gasps when they trod the occasional red carpet together. The fact that she was wearing the “sexy librarian” glasses just added an extra frisson to his version of domestic bliss.

 

Except now she had him wondering about this thing with Lee and Noel. It was an odd combination for a friendship. Tim and Lee made sense. Noel and Julian. Even Noel and Richard Ayoade. But Lee and Noel? The blokiest Northern bloke imaginable and the slightly ethereal master of surrealist whimsy? What _would_ they have in common? It would be completely rude to ask Lee of course.

 

_So Lee, why does your polar comic opposite make you light up with glee and how come he’s practically rolling on the floor whenever you two are within ten feet of each other?”_

 

Like those charming folks who’d ask to his rather astonished face what Victoria could possibly see in him. Never mind that he occasionally asked himself the same question.

 

“Yes, dear, I’ll ring up Lee immediately and get to the bottom of it.”

 

“You’ll do no such thing.”

 

“Of course I won’t. What do you take me for?”

 

“A man who is about to lose a Scrabble game.”

 

He put the Cosmic Comic Conundrum out of his mind long enough to find a spot to play “Qi,” but she ended up beating him anyway.

 

“Can we at least keep our Bake Off habit a secret?"

 

She was kind enough not to mention his Celebrity Bake Off appearance. What a man was willing to do for charity shouldn’t affect his carefully burnished veneer of clueless elitism.

 

"Of course, darling,” she said, putting the game back into the box.

 

Not that he believed her for a moment. The whole thing was likely to come out on an episode of WILTY, complete with massive amounts of mockery from Lee. Maybe they’d all get another BAFTA nomination out of it. 

@@@@@

 

Noel had gone to sleep the night before the announcement thinking he was prepared for what lay ahead.

 

This, in spite of his last meeting with Sandi and Anna, outlining the press schedule they were meant to follow after the initial announcement. As always, when she had something important to say, Sandi made sure he was sitting down. Usually this was to make sure she could look into his eyes, rather than his belt buckle. In this case, she'd been trying to convey the idea that the response to the news might be slightly out of proportion to the actual event. 

 

“Aw, come on Sands! It’s a piece of fluff. It’s dust in the wind, as Kansas once said. No one really cares about this stuff. All it takes is Prince George having colic and we’re right off the radar.”

 

Sandi shook her head with the wisdom of the ages.

 

“My dear boy,” she intoned, “you have no idea.” 

 

Too right. In his wildest dreams, and he realized with a slight shudder these were _his_ wildest dreams, he could not have imagined the tsunami of madness that would ensue over _a bloody baking show_.

 

The press schedule grew increasingly bloated, like some Lovecraftian monstrosity, developing obscene tentacles of phone interviews and Skype hook-ups. Apparently, this development in entertainment was worthy of comment in every newspaper, broadcast, blog and bathroom across the UK, not to mention parts of the world where the thing would never legally be shown. Had he really done an interview with a reporter calling from Turkmenistan, hardly a bastion of the free press, if he recalled correctly, or was that Alexei Sayle getting himself patched through to take the piss?

 

Maybe what Sandi had anticipated was the level of vitriol that would be spewed in certain circles within an hour of the announcement, most of it aimed directly at him. No one seemed too upset by Sandi stepping into Sue’s sensible shoes, but somehow Noel being hired as the co-host was seen as a deliberate two fingers in the face of all that was good and holy.

 

You would have thought he’d cut Mel into pieces and stuffed her in a trunk, rather than the simple fact of Channel 4 having money and Love Productions taking it. Mel and Sue decided to move on and he and Sandi got the jobs. 

 

To Noel, it was all just a lark and should have been as normal as a flight delay on Ryanair, instead of provoking Piers Morgan to act though he were an actual reporter with a hijacking in progress where the hostages were being forced to make a chocolate bombe out of Freddos in the galley. He didn’t remember this kind of drama breaking out when Carol Vorderman left Countdown.

 

Even Boris Johnson had an opinion, negative, of course. At least Nigel Farage had kept his gob shut. Presumably he was waiting for Nish to score a major hosting job, so he’d really have something to rail against.

 

Noel had used every substance legally available, plus all the tricks he’d ever picked up to keep going when that was the only thing that mattered. He remembered the advice he had once given a certain young stand-up who was feeling overwhelmed by his first go at the Fringe.

_Keep going. Keep smiling. Keep talking. If you stop, you might not start again._

And he'd done it. Talked to every single one of them. Smiled until his jaw hurt. Even his hair felt tired.

 

His phone was full of unanswered texts, emails and voicemails. He’d already sent Birdie a few pertinent emojis and he’d touch base once he’d had time to decompress. He considered calling Julian, but honestly couldn’t think of anything to say and wasn’t sure he had a voice to do so. His mates would understand and the rest could sod it. Bed was calling his name loud and clear, but so was hunger.

 

Something resembling real food might be a good idea. A nice curry would really hit the spot, or even better, Chicken Tikka Masala. Russell was always pushing him toward the path of virtuous veganism, but a man needs his comfort foods and Tikka Masala was another pleasant reminder of Edinburgh and the night his unexpected flatmate won “So You Think You’re Funny.”

 

His thoughts were interrupted by someone knocking on the door of his present abode. Maybe one of the neighbours was coming around to offer congratulations. He hoped none of them were rude enough to come in person if they intended to join the statistically small, but unreasonably vocal chorus of disapproval.

 

Neither seemed likely given the hour, not to mention the median age and income bracket. He’d deliberately chosen Highgate as a refuge from being a “professional nutter,” as his dad liked to say. A strongly worded letter was about as much response as he’d expect from anyone who could get past the front door.

 

If anyone was still using paper and stamps (possibly even signet rings) it was the slightly stooped, but impeccably dressed men and women he occasionally shared the lift with. He got an odd thrill out of watching them take in whatever outfit his mood had dictated for the day and their uncanny ability to show no reaction whatsoever, no matter how outlandish the attire. 

Press or fans then, but that would mean a rather epic failure of security, unless they were miffed by one of his self-deprecating comments about living in such a tiny address. _You could have stayed in High Wycombe, you know._

 

Before he could solve the mystery by the simple act of looking through the peephole, his phone went off, playing his current ringtone of Alice Cooper’s “Poison,” at a volume that would probably trigger a menacing glare if one of his neighbors heard it. The caller was the person most happily associated with Chicken Tikka Masala.

 

Noel opened the door to find Lee standing there with a phone in one hand and a take-away bag in the other. He had the beginnings of the beard that he grew when he had a gap between telly gigs and wasn’t on tour; his way of reverting to a private person instead of the public “Lee Mack”. It reminded Noel of the lean and hungry soul he’d met back in 1995.

 

Lee pushed past Noel clearly heading in the direction of the kitchen to put the bags down. The food smelled delicious and along with a generous helping of Tikka Masala, Noel suspected there would be some Garlic Naan. He had fleeting thought that a character called Garlic Nan would be great for the next series of Luxury, assuming there was one after all this Bake Off drama subsided.

 

Never one to leave an elephant in the room unmentioned, Lee went right to the heart of the matter.

 

“Jeremy Kyle says that you’re debasing a beloved British institution.”

 

“Makes it sound like I’m buggering the Queen.”

 

“Pretty sure that’s what they’re paying Prince Philip for.”

 

Noel broke into a natural smile and relaxed for the first time all day. 

 

This was more like it, he thought. Someone to take care of things, maybe to take care of him for awhile. Quite a turnaround from that ridiculously cold summer night in Edinburgh, but exactly what he needed right now. Both the food and Lee.

@@@@@

 

“Wussell?”

 

“Yes, darling,” Russell replied, using the camp to avoid sounding too put out. As he immediately inventoried the irritation in his mind, he noted that no one was forcing him to keep the phone turned on when he was meditating, much less answer it. Of course if he was doing his Sadhna at 4AM, he wouldn’t be getting interrupted by calls from Wossy, who was rarely awake before noon.

 

There was no question that he’d always answer such a call, no matter when it came. They had so much history, good and bad. There’d been serious amends to make for the stunt that nearly ended both their careers. For Russell, his success, his very existence (one day at a time) was clear evidence of the Divine, and he attributed Jonathan’s eventual return to the Beeb and even greater success with ITV to that as well. They were two lucky bastards, and good friends after all this time, but also very busy ones, so what had Wossy ringing him up for a late night chat rather than shooting a pithy text or provocative tweet?

 

“You’ve heard the news, of course?”

 

Russell had heard a lot of news, since he usually had the telly on while he tackled a few miles on his treadmill. Today’s load of rubbish emanating from the United States included what Trump’s minions were trying to due to the health insurance of their citizens and the latest revelations regarding the election travesty. Good topics for Trews, but not likely to inspire this particular phone call. There were no particularly juicy sex scandals breaking, which would definitely get Jonathan’s attention. 

 

Russell had always thought that if Jonathan ever did get into recovery, it would be the sex addiction that brought him to his literal and metaphorical knees. No, it must be something having to do with show-biz, which was Wossy’s truest passion. Maybe some casting rumor about the next Marvel movie? Those always got him into a bit of a tizzy. Casting…..oh for fuck’s sake…

 

“The Bake Off?”

 

"You have heard!"

 

He’d been so busy lately working on the new book and Trews and the new act and his yoga and trying to be a decent husband and father and a good sponsor. Somehow the ongoing saga of who would host The Great British Bake Off hadn’t loomed that large on his priority list. If it had been a burning desire of his pal Wossy to host and he’d been rejected, then Russell was prepared to be a paragon of empathy, as he’d been after that Hugo awards nightmare.

 

“Tough break! Didn’t think you’d be interested in that one.”

 

“Weally, Wussell?”

 

He didn’t need Skype to see Jonathan rolling his eyes. The tone told Russell he was on the wrong track. Fair enough. He tended to filter out Jonathan’s pronunciation quirk unless it was being mentioned by some twat who thought he was being terribly clever about their respective speech peculiarities, but it was possible that a gig requiring the host to rattle off things like “profiteroles,” “rugelach,” or “red velvet cake” on a regular basis wasn’t the best use of his talents. He’d go back to not noticing it himself, unless of course Jonathan had another penguin named Ferrari on the show.

 

“I think they’ll be brilliant,” he said, now that the coast was clear to praise the choice, even though he honestly hadn’t had an opinion about it until that exact moment.

 

“Well Sandi, sure. That’s a no brainer.” Russell held his breath to see if Jonathan had any kind of snark up his sleeve about a certain similarity between Sue and Sandi, but at least for the time being, he wasn’t going there. They weren’t on air, but you never really knew who might be listening these days. “But _Noel_? How do you get from The Boosh to banging on about a ganache?”

 

Russell sensed this was the heart of the matter. Not professional pique, but personal disillusionment. Wossy truly felt that Noel was selling out and maybe even demeaning himself. Was he really that naive, or even idealistic under the veneer of randy cynicism? Sweet idea that, as if either he or Jonathan were in a position to cast stones.

 

Noel was a uniquely gifted performer, maybe even a divinely inspired soul, but a pound was a pound and Inland Revenue waits for no man.

 

“You’re worried about Noel’s cult credibility, is that right?” Russell asked gently.

 

“A bit."

 

“Hero worship don’t look good on you, mate.”

 

He would have started wrapping up the conversation, but Jonathan had put him on hold for a second and Russell started wondering if this story might be Trews-worthy just as a Rorschach test of how people were reacting, or maybe a Bread and Circuses analogy for the tottering Tory regime. Noel would appreciate that.

 

Maybe he’d ring up Noel and see how he was managing. They hadn’t talked much lately. Everyone thought they were so close, especially when the Goth Detectives were the reigning champions of the Big Fat Quiz. They definitely enjoyed each other’s company and there was more than a hint of flirtation that had never really gone anywhere. Russell was generally interested in the ladies, but tried not to be a fanatic, especially when someone as attractive as Noel was involved. He was looking forward to running his fingers through that silky hair, and maybe having Noel's in his own unruly mop.

 

The closest had been the second time they won the Big Fat Quiz. Russell was high on pure adrenaline and Noel had turned his usual flirtation up to 11.They’d exchanged a few glances in the gent's leading Russell to think the only question was whether they’d get dinner first when Noel’s mobile went off and Russell could actually hear someone blasting “Congratulations,” over the phone.

 

“Who’s that then?” Russell had asked, fairly sure that Sir Cliff himself wasn’t the one to be placing the call.

 

“Must be Lee,” Noel had replied with an adorably embarrassed smile on his face.

 

“Lee” turned out to be Mack, and the next thing you know the night ended with Noel flitting off in what Russell had grudgingly supposed was Mr. Mack’s direction for who knew what. Russell had ended up home alone with a book by Eckhart Tolle and who the hell in the press would even believe that?

 

Jonathan was back, so Russell decided to see if he knew anything about what seemed an unlikely connection. Jonathan tended to have all the dirt and right now Russell wanted some, even if it was hardly "right speech."

 

“What’s up with Noel and Lee Mack?”

 

“They’re friends. I once saw them skating together at Somerset House.”

 

“You lie like a rug, Ross!”

 

“It’s all true. Lee’s surprisingly light on his feet.”

 

“If not his loafers.”

 

“Am I catching a whiff of jealousy there?”

 

Russell hoped not, but what were friends for, if not to tell you when you were being an arse?

 

“What do they have to be thick as thieves about? Mack’s such a…”

 

He always felt oddly comfortable being his worst self around Jonathan. Maybe that’s why they didn’t talk as much anymore. Of course there was soon to be a book to promote and the Brand/Ross on-air chemistry was still a sure sell. The PR people would have that well in hand when the time came.

 

“Not as much of a lad as you’d think. They go back a ways together and they love the same comics. Lee’s a good egg, I promise you.”

 

Russell certainly understood the pitfalls of mistaking a comic persona for the real person both as it applied to himself and others. At his lowest ebb, following the split with Katy and when it felt like all of Fleet Street seemed to be drooling over the prospect of his falling of the wagon, he couldn’t have been more surprised to get a call from John Bishop. If he and Bishop could bond over teetotaling and vegetarianism, he supposed he’d have to give Noel the benefit of the doubt about Lee Mack. Or try to.

 

“How far can you get with dueling Tommy Cooper imitations?”

 

There was a tap on the door followed by Laura poking her head in. Russell waved and nodded, realising it was time to wrap this call up. He needed to get back to his meditation. Maybe he’d chant the Triple Mantra for Noel, for Jonathan, for himself. Even for bloody Lee Mack. They all needed protection.

 

Jonathan had a last tidbit for him.

 

“If it makes you feel better, they did have a bit of a tiff a few years back.”

 

“Oh yeah?” He was more interested in this fact than he like to admit to himself or to another human being. “And what was the nature of said tiff?”

 

“Lee told Noel that Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory wasn’t a documentary.”

@@@@@

 

“So it’s a talking piece of naan, right, with a bindi and the whole accent, and she’s the Granny of this poor guy who’s trying to have it off with his girlfriend, but she won’t leave them alone and then it turns into a whole Bollywood thing and I play the Sitar like a Stratocaster and do a Led Zeppelin solo and Garlic Nan dances with me…”

 

Lee was in the awkward position of trying to eat while giggling at the concept. Ludicrous, potentially offensive and totally hilarious. Lee could see it in his head and knew Noel would carry it off brilliantly.

 

Few people tickled Lee’s funny bone as consistently as Noel, or brought out as much of his concern when he felt they were being treated unfairly.

 

“You should go see Noel; he’s having a wretched time of it.”

 

Lee had been thinking along the same lines as the day unfolded, but had been reluctant to say so to Tara, not that she would begrudge him the time with a friend. They’d never talked about it, which suited Lee, simply because he wouldn’t know what to say.

 

In this case, he merely nodded in agreement, grabbed a DVD, and called in the order for take-away from Ripley Curry Garden. He’d picked up the food and made one other stop at an off-license, before driving to Noel’s place in Highgate. Lee didn’t bother to phone ahead; he knew exactly what Noel would want.

 

The relationship between Lee, Noel and Chicken Tikka Masala had started in 1995 in Edinburgh, in a flat on Watson Crescent.

 

He’d come to Edinburgh, barely a year into being what he dared to think of as a professional comedian, still self-conscious about his Lancashire accent and hoping he was putting on a good show of covering up his sheer terror about the whole thing.

 

His one stroke of luck was connections. He knew Tim and Tim knew Ronni. What Tim didn’t know was that Ronni was a bit of a flake. Or maybe there’d be some massive cock-up. Either way, there were suddenly too many comics, not enough beds, no heat and an empty larder. Despite the fact that the flat was hardly on a main thoroughfare, two buskers had set up shop right under the window and appeared intent on chanting some Sub-continental nonsense nonstop.

 

“Sanskrit mantras,” Tim had commented, sounding knowledgeable, if not helpful, but the bloke in the madly coloured velour jumpsuit and maroon waistcoat shook his long hair so that the fringe seemed to dance over his forehead and said, “I think you’ll find it’s Gurmukhi. Language of the Sikhs. They’re chanting to Guru Ram Das, Lord of Miracles.”

 

Tim appeared deflated, but Lee couldn’t help smiling and thinking that this was exactly what the situation called for, whether it was an actual miracle or just someone savvy enough to know Gurmukhi when he heard it.

 

He didn’t know right then that this was the beginning of anything beyond the Fringe itself, but the friendship was cemented the night of “So You Think You’re Funny.” Tim was more nervous than he was and if part of that was professional envy, Lee didn’t completely blame him. They were mining the same vein of fast-paced one liners and nobody out-paced Tim Vine. Lee knew his own act needed work in terms of finding a point of view that would set him apart from a world of northern comics who were coming up at the same time. He’d joke afterwards that Tim couldn’t be arsed to show up, but it was probably closer to Lee giving him permission to be elsewhere.

 

Lee watched approvingly as Noel tucked into the Tikka Masala, knowing they both had the same fond memories of what was probably a technically inferior version, but the best thing Lee had ever tasted at the time. The restaurant was some hole in the wall with a lot of elephants on the wall. Lee was still numb, barely remembering the performance he'd given or even getting the award. The only thing that felt real and solid through the whole thing was Noel’s soothing presence in the audience and his heartfelt congratulations while wearing a slightly sinister ensemble of leather with some bits of lace thrown around.

 

It was the garb that first got them on the topic of music

 

Lee had been sopping up the last of the sauce (with a bit of garlic naan, of course) when he’d finally come down from his combination of nerves and euphoria enough to really hone in on the evening’s fashion statement.

 

“Stevie Nicks tribute then?” he’d muttered.

 

“Exactly,” Noel replied nonchalantly, and from there they discovered similarities in musical taste, as well as a few crucial differences. At least they concurred on the horror that was having to hear “Congratulations” at every bloody family wedding. It almost made you want Franco back just for having blocked the vote that would have let the damn thing win Eurovision.

 

On that night’s crawl back to Watson Crescent they’d moved from the topic of music where Lee could be highly opinionated without necessarily having much to say besides, “God, he’s brilliant,” (Prince) or “What a bloody twat!” (Robbie Williams) to that of comedy. It turned out they shared several passions including Peter Cook, Freddie Starr and just about anything written by Ben Elton.

 

Whatever lack of self-confidence Lee might have felt next to the ever so smooth Noel, it all fell by the wayside when he was able to get Noel doubled over by his Tommy Cooper imitation. It would have been a perfect night for that alone, even with the chanting buskers still camped out in front of the flat. In fact, Lee was tempted to thank them since Guru Rama Lama, or whoever it was seemed to have come through all right.

 

“Guess what Julian found in the basement?”

 

“Basement?"

 

It hadn’t even occurred to Lee to go exploring beyond their own confined space, since Ronni had only provided a key to the front door. Noel and Julian apparently lacked any such compunctions.

 

“Follow me.”

 

The sadly empty kitchen had a small door, with an even smaller lock which had been completely dismantled by what Lee would learn was a small grooming device. That door led to a narrow tunnel and then to a “be careful,” that almost came too late. Luckily the staircase didn’t go down all that far, so Lee ended up with a slightly bruised bum instead of a broken neck and in the end it was worth it.

 

“You found this? You didn’t just make it up out of your own depraved imagination?”

 

Noel’s impish smile spoke of delight in sharing the lair of whatever pervert had managed to get the couch, telly and VCR down there. The tape collection was a melange of pornography, bad 80’s movies and a wonderful cache of slightly dodgy Friday Night live recordings.

 

There was also a stack of blankets. Lee brushed a hand over his own scruffy chin and thought he might be hallucinating. Maybe the Tikka had been too much for a simple lad from Blackburn. The best was still yet to come in the form of a large wooden crate that Ronni’s friend was going to regret not bothering to conceal. Perhaps he hadn’t anticipated the presence of a bloke who cared enough about the condition of his eyebrows enough to carry tweezers.

 

The couch in Noel’s Highgate flat had many advantages over the dusty basement monstrosity where they’d tentatively ended up under a blanket for both warmth and companionship on a cold night when Lee needed something solid to hold onto.

 

No lack of heat in this posh spot and the bottle that Lee had picked up on the way over was no longer a tongue twister. 

 

He’d thrown a cashmere long coat over t-shirt and jeans. No point trying to match Noel in sartorial splendour, although he’d found Noel surprisingly dressed down. Lee might have expected one of Noel’s surprisingly large collection of exotic caftans, rather than anything so prosaic as trousers and a flannel shirt. The lad must be well and truly knackered.

 

Lee reached over to the coat, which was now on the couch, and pulled out the bottle, along with the Young Ones DVD.

 

“You remembered!”

 

Noel looked genuinely moved. Lee hoped there wouldn't be tears. He'd seen what those could do to Noel's mascara.

 

“I’d forget after all this time?”

 

From the night they’d helped themselves to the Aberlour A'bunadh which Lee could barely pronounce at the time, special events had been celebrated this way. The last time had been Lee’s British Comedy Award for Best Male Comic. It was a ritual and something the ladies seemed to understand, even if they didn’t completely. Lee had never mentioned the specifics to Tara, but he did sometimes use his personal nickname for Noel and that had to be a bit of a give-a-way. On the other hand, Noel flirted with everyone which meant none of it was really serious.

 

Everybody knew that.

@@@@@

 

“Rob, will you please stop brooding.”

 

“I’m not brooding!”

 

“I do think you are, you know, just a bit.”

 

“If I were brooding, Steve...if I WERE BROODING, I would do it like Richard **BUR** -TON and I would look into the depths of my soul and wonder at the EMPTINESS inside **MY** -SELF and ask the naked boy with the horse cock if he’d seen Elizabeth and...where was I?”

 

Rob realized he might have gotten a bit loud for the rather intimate Soho eatery where he and Steve were having a typically free-form late-evening chat. Coogan wasn’t a big fan of phone calls and Rob didn’t mind indulging him. On the other hand, Coogan didn’t seem inclined to indulge Rob's moodiness in the slightest, even if dark emotions were his birthright as a Welshman.

 

“ Brooding. The Bake Off."

 

“I’m not.” Steve’s expression said he was having none of it. “All right. Maybe just a little. I did have several meetings and rather obscene amounts of money were being discussed.”

 

“I didn’t think you cared,” said Steve, eying the wine list in that terribly off-handed way he’d cribbed directly from Peter Cooke.

 

“Neither did I,” Rob replied ruefully, not even bothering to go into his Dudley Moore imitation.

 

“Get over yourself,” Steve snapped. “Would you really want to be in Fielding’s shoes right now?

 

“I believe he has quite delicate little feet, so I would be rather uncomfortable. Also I don’t quite see myself favoring the spangles and doo-dads that might appear on such footwear.”

 

“Your long socks would never fit.”

 

“Certainly not with those excessively tight trousers.”

 

Steve looked satisfied and finally came to what Rob assumed was the actual point of the conversation.

 

“Shall we sign on for another Trip? Winterbourne is avid to get us back on the road.”

 

“Milking it a bit, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Weren’t you the one pining for filthy lucre? I think we can hold them up for a lovely pile this time.”

 

“Now you’re talking my language. Where shall Steve and Rob be off to this time?”

 

“Perhaps the Antarctic?”

 

“Lots of posh restaurants up that way, are there?”

 

“At least you’re paying attention. Now we can talk. What if this was the other way round. What if Steve had his heart set on something so ludicrous and naturally doesn’t get it. What would Rob think?”

 

“That Steve was worried about some co-star mocking him unmercifully because their good friend Noel got the job instead.”

 

“Ah!”

 

Not that Lee would do it to be an utter bastard, but simply because it would be irresistible to sneak as many Bake Off references into his WILTY patter, particularly while improvising some ridiculous lie. With Rob’s luck the bookers would get Noel on the show just to double down on the abuse.

 

The conversation moved on and tea arrived, but Rob’s mind was still stuck back in Noel Fielding’s exquisitely appointed footwear, and the possibility that right now he felt like the Little Man in a Box. Rob was lucky to have a Steve to talk him down and he supposed Noel would be reaching out for Lee. Metaphorically, of course. 

 

“He’s a good bloke in his own way,” Rob said.

 

“In what way?”

 

“When I first came on to host, I had it in my head that I should start out with an impression of Angus. I watched every bit of video I could find. I spent hours on it. One of the best I’ve ever done.”

 

“Better than your Beckham?”

 

“Oh, by a long shot. So I show up, first day on set and I start doing it during the set-up for a tech rehearsal. Lee just happened to walk in while they were still miking me and he saw me doing the facial expression. Not even a word out of my mouth and Lee went all serious.

 

“Don’t do that Robbie. Not here. Not ever.”

 

Rob had to smile. He didn’t get to do Lee often either, especially serious Lee, a rather elusive creature.

 

“Why not?” Steve asked, presumably still being Rob, but not bothering with an impression.

 

“Everybody hates him. Total prick. The guys from Hat Trick tried to convince Peter not to go with him, but he wouldn’t listen. You’re gonna be everybody’s new best pal around here, but you don’t want to remind them that Deayton even exists. You hear me, matey?”

 

Rob switched back to his own voice.

 

“Best advice he could have given me.”

 

“Impressive."

 

“It’s good isn’t it,” he said, assuming Steve was impressed with his Lee Mack and would want to emulate it. The key was in pretending you were trying to coach Blackburn Rovers.

 

“Weren’t they not talking for awhile though?” Steve asked, sounding strangely interested in something that far outside of himself.

 

“I think that’s us you’ve got in mind.”

 

“Oh right.”

 

“Are we being ourselves now?" Rob asked. With Steve, it was always worth checking. He wondered if Noel and Lee had the kind of friendship that made you question your life versus your professional persona on a daily basis. That would be especially strange for Noel Fielding, he imagined. You had to admire the creativity behind the Mighty Boosh and the various flights of fancy in his stand-up. So different from Lee’s style.

 

“Perhaps." Steve replied, archly. "I do think they were on the outs for awhile.”

 

“Happens to the best of us,” Rob reminded him, although he wondered what it might have been about, since as far as he knew they were close enough to have nicknames for each other. At least he could have sworn he’d heard Lee referring to Noel as the Cuttlefish, whatever that was supposed to mean.

 

“Something about music I heard.”

 

If Steve thought he was going to get gossip out of Rob, he was going to be disappointed, since Rob didn’t have it. Music made as much sense about anything. Lee’s taste in music seemed to have stagnated somewhere back in the 80’s and could be hilariously ignorant and opinionated at the same time. Sometimes Rob could have sworn that _David_ was more knowledgeable about pop music, and that was truly saying something.

 

Whatever the cause, they seemed to have gotten through it. Noel and Lee always appeared to be in the process of scuttling off somewhere, giggling like naughty boys whenever Rob was trying to corral the WILTY team toward the press gang at the BAFTAs and such. Maybe they brought out the innocence in each other.

 

As opposed to “Rob” and “Steve,” or even their real selves, who had quite the opposite effect. 

 

Back to business, then.

 

“And exactly how large a pile are we talking about?”

Steve raised a glass for a toast to their ongoing collaboration and Rob realized that some aspect of this exact conversation would end up in the next series of the Trip. Good thing he hadn’t mentioned the “Cuttlefish” out loud. 

 

He and Steve were willing to share at least some aspect of their real lives with the public in the name of entertainment. Lee Mack, as far as Rob knew, most emphatically was not.

 

@@@@@

Noel was still exhausted, but now he was relaxed, maybe a little _too_ relaxed. The effects of Tikka Masala and single malt were not to be underestimated, but honestly, sometimes just being with Lee made him feel that way.

 

He knew there was a bit of nostalgia involved, but wasn’t that what friends were for? Of all the cheesy lyrics to be thinking. But it was true. He’d kept friendships that started back in Uni and even earlier. 

 

The memories with Lee were always tinged with the tastes of that night and even the sound of Lee’s voice with what was then a thick Lancashire accent. Lee was embarrassed by it, but Noel had found it dead sexy and wasn’t shy about letting Lee know.

 

Well, maybe a little shy. Luckily they had Speyside’s finest and a shared taste for The Young Ones. The first touch came when they both managed a perfect imitation of Rik Mayall saying, “Oh, God, I'm bored. Might as well be listening to Genesis,” and the giggles somehow led to cuddles. Some damn good cuddles, Noel thought sleepily. Aberlour A'bunadh and cuddles.

 

Twenty years of friendship right there.

 

Aside from those four years, but he tried not to think about that.

@@@@@

 

“Ní maith liom do thrioblóid.”

 

“Oh for the love of fuck, Ed. It’s not like me sainted mother’s been run over by a milk truck on a country road in Donegal! It’s a bloody baking show!”

 

Ed pouted slightly that Dara couldn’t be arsed to reply in Irish when Ed had gone to the trouble of coming up with something semi-appropriate, despite his actual Irish being rubbish. Of course he was only calling to give Dara shite, so Dara had every right to let him have it between the eyes.

 

“Oh be that way!”

 

“Thanks for the permission.”

 

The voice of a man who knew damn well he was in for another series full of abuse. Mock The Week wasn’t known for letting a running gag against its own host die when there was still a laugh to be wrung. Megabus, anyone?

 

“But really, Dara, you would have been brilliant.”

 

“Right. Because I’m not over-exposed enough?”

 

“Well it’s not like Sandi’s been keeping a low profile is it? Or Noel. He’s all over the place. He’s done everything but snog Lee Mack on the Piccadilly line at rush hour.”

 

“What? What does that even mean?”

 

“Oh come on! You’ve never noticed those two making goo-goo eyes at each other at every awards ceremony? The last BAFTAs, I thought Noel was going to break into “Some Enchanted Evening. His cat tail had an actual erection."

 

“Are you on drugs?”

 

“Are you blind?”

 

Ed was serious. In fact, he’d mentioned the whole thing to Victoria Coren a few weeks back when they’d ended up in the same Green Room before The One Show and she’d been absolutely fascinated by his collection of YouTube clips proving the point. He’d hoped she’d have some insight, given her one degree of separation via David’s on-going snarkfest with Mack on WILTY, but all she had was an eloquent shoulder shrug and a squint through the glasses. What the hell did she see in David Mitchell of all people? As big a question as how Noel in all his peacock finery found such common ground with a man whose entire fashion aesthetic consisted of finding the ugliest shirts he could possibly find and wearing them as often as he could on telly.

 

Dara let out a sigh that told Ed he was glowering like a cross school-master. Ed could practically hear the “Scenes We’d Like To See Buzzer” telling him the joke was over.

 

Except one should never underestimate Dara’s willingness to go in on a joke.

 

“Maybe Lee is just a sucker for a good cuddle.”

 

“Oh please. Don’t talk bollocks.”

 

"Maybe those are involved as well. A gentle cupping perhaps?"

 

That was too ridiculous, even for Ed. He rang off and prepared his next call to a rejected Bake Off host. Wossy was bound to be in a tizzy. This should be fun.

@@@@@

 

The plan had been Tikka, Aberlour and just a few Young Ones episodes, but they were as hard to stop as Pringles. Somehow they were all the way up to “Bambi,” before Lee was sure that Noel was on the verge of a well-deserved sleep. He was also sure neither of them were inclined to move anytime soon.

 

It always went down that way, but Lee didn’t mind. Edinburgh had changed everything. He came home with an actual career and he’d found someone and something in that surreal basement.

 

They always went to Blackpool on Summer Holiday. One year, Mum had taken him and Darren to Sea Life. It must have been before he was old (or interested) enough to read all the labels on the various exhibits. For some reason, Darren had been rather taken with some unprepossessing creature and kept saying its name over and over, but Lee had misheard.

 

“Don’t look very cuddly to me,” he’d said and moved on looking for something more exciting, like a shark.

 

Then he met Noel Fielding and spent a night under a blanket. By the next day, he’d given Noel the nickname that harked back to that trip and still made him giggle slightly whenever he thought about it. Especially how funny (and horrible) it would be if anyone else found out.

He’d also discovered that their shared taste in comedy would carry them through a lot. It had taken the sorrow of Rik Mayall’s passing to get them talking again after that absolutely ridiculous fight. Four years of not talking. Four bloody years of not spending any time together, simply 

because he’d blurted out the first thing that came to his mind when Noel mentioned that Bryan Ferry had a new album coming out.

 

Perhaps he should have taken a better look at some of the pictures in Noel’s art studio, or better yet paid attention to the enthusiasm in Noel’s voice before he said, “Pretentious wanker.” 

 

Then he found out that Noel was going to interview said pretentious wanker for NME and was absolutely giddy with delight about it. Apparently Ferry was as high in Noel's personal pantheon as Bowie, maybe even higher.

 

Lee was used to giving offense and being quickly forgiven in the name of humour, so it was rather a shock to find that he and Noel were genuinely on the outs after that. The Willy Wonka joke that the Buzzcocks writers came up with to cover Noel’s absence from the show was weak at best, but no one had a better one and Lee wasn’t about to cop to his own part in the situation. 

In fact, they still hadn’t really sorted it. All that happened was Rik died and there seemed to be no question that Lee and Noel would attend the funeral together. In mutual sorrow for their fallen idol, it was as though the rift had never happened.

 

The bottle was empty and Lee wondered if he should make sure Noel got into bed, but he was more inclined to leave things as they were and enjoy a little more time in their comfortable space before it was time to go home. 

 

Maybe Noel sensed the slight shifting in their embrace and knew what was happening.

 

“Thanks, Gordon.”

 

Ooh, that was serious. The nicknames only came out when emotions were running high, such as the day Bowie died or when Lee was finally able to shed a few tears over his brother, nearly a year after the actual fact.

 

“No worries, mate!”

 

By unspoken mutual assent, Noel and Lee disentangled enough to stand up. There was an embrace, but also the sense of goodbye until the next time whenever that might be. Lee closed his eyes as Noel ran his soft hand over Lee’s facial hair sending something like a shiver down Lee's spine.

 

“Do me a favor?” Noel was turning on his childlike voice, which was also his most disturbingly captivating.

 

“Oh, here we go again.”

 

Lee knew what was coming. He always shaved before filming started again.

 

“Please. Just leave it on for a few episodes. I like to see you with the beard. It reminds me of Edinburgh.”

 

On one hand it was important to have that visual distinction between “Lee” the clean-shaven dim bulb and all-round knob that he played for the crowd and the real man he kept for Tara and the kids and a few others, including Noel. Now that David was sporting his own beard, Lee was even more determined not to be seen unshaven in a professional setting.

 

On the other hand, this was Noel asking, nearly pouting and giving him the puppy-dog eyes. Noel, who'd had the day from hell and who'd been there for him when it felt like no one else was.

 

He sighed, but had already made the decision.

 

“Only for you, Cuddle Fish.”


End file.
